


so beautiful and so unaware of it !!

by s0dafucker



Category: Waterparks (Band)
Genre: M/M, Vampires, a glittery mess, and my thesis on what it means to be gnc?? is this what the kids like these days, do yall like blood kinks and the cure/smiths discourse????, in a fun way, just a fucking mess honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: otto works at a record store and he admires awsten from afar and he likes it that way.(that's about it, really.)ever craved something but didn't know what it is that you craved? are you bored?
Relationships: Awsten Knight/Otto Wood
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	so beautiful and so unaware of it !!

**Author's Note:**

> _ 'trying to reclaim ‘flamboyant’ as a positive thing is really fun because it has a lot of history. it's been used as a derogatory term -- a coded word for homosexual, queer, effiminate -- and obvious as opposed to secretive, which is what you’re supposed to be in a society that doesn’t embrace you...then, people started talking about it as something colorful or flame-like that you couldn’t look away from. it became a way to describe people’s personalities and other pieces of art.'_  
  
_-billboard interview with [ dorian electra ](https://www.billboard.com/articles/news/pride/8520161/dorian-electra-interview-flamboyant-debut-album)_

and awsten’s gorgeous, right, ‘specially when he offers otto an earbud on the bus home, makes him scootch over so their legs are touching and turns the volume up on the sparkliest music otto’s ever heard- hot pink music, sticky and warm- his voice low and scratchy when he asks, ‘what time do you work tomorrow?’ and otto can’t answer for a second because he’s staring at awsten’s lips, glossy and pink. 

he’s setting the needle on a record, bright white, and his hair’s lime green- otto’s slipping behind the counter and he’s staring, ‘cause awsten’s the prettiest boy on the planet, right, and he’s turning around with a dreamboat smile and stars painted over his eyes, all of him glowing faintly. the song scratches softly before it comes in, all major chords and light synths, riffs with a sort of elegance to them- awsten finds a lollipop somewhere in his jacket and offers it, waltzing off to do inventory and leaving otto with blue cotton candy and a dizzy lovesickness. 

awsten's friends slip in and out of the record store with the same dreamy quality he has; something faelike and assured, an ice-skater's walk and a megawatt smile. 

geoff- 'with a g,' awsten clarifies, doing his lipgloss in the tiny mirror next to the sunglasses- is the chillest, blue eyes and sheepish smile and broad, soft palms. he's tired around the edges, flipping through the cs of alt-goth-emo- awsten's purple glitter pen cursive label reading  _ sad-bitch-music!-  _ picks up  _ kiss me kiss me kiss me  _ and holds it up, questioningly, in otto's direction; his heart thumps hummingbird fast for a second too long before he says- 'the cure's, uh, they're great, i think that's one of their best-' 

_ it's friday i'm in love  _ awsten croons, smacks his lips to seal the sparkle- otto really wishes he wouldn't do that, it's a special kind of hell- and geoff with his reassuring gaze and pond-blue eyes sets the album down on the counter. (otto rings it up with hands that feel like they should tremble. they're steadfast anyway, even when they hand over the change and receipt and touch geoff's hand in the process- it sparks and fizzles at the point of contact- should it do that? should he-? and geoff says, 'awsten, are you coming over later,' and awsten's nails are silver-blue sequined when he pushes geoff's hair out of his eyes, moves the clasp of his necklace, sing-murmurs 'yeah, i'll be there around six.')

jawn is -

-another story, frankly-

-to be determined-

-a nightmare-daydream i spy puzzle- 

\- awsten's best friend. 

('my  _ better half _ ,' he says, arms around jawn's neck, chin tucked into that intimate junction of his shoulder, voice warm and honey-thick and dripping with melodrama. otto can't tell if he's joking. (jawn's indulgent smile does him no favors, and neither does the kiss he presses to awsten's cheek.) they're saran-wrap clinging, hands clasped loosely together when awsten's lazily working register and jawn's making his way through a paperweight novel, pinkies linked and a gaudy pair of sunglasses hanging from jawn's shirt collar. passing a lollipop back and forth.)

fur coats that match in a weird sort of way- awsten in purple-blue-red and jawn in straight forward cruella de vil cheetah print, looking like a bond villain, looking like a sharper elton john

(there's a shitty joke there, if otto could find his tongue and throat and brain), a thorny kind of prince, closed-smile royalty (although maybe it's just otto's wishful thinking, a fever-pitch foot-tapping praying that he'll just  _ fucking leave  _ and stop smiling with his eyes dark and sweet, nightshade and cedar- otto's been listening to too much fucking neko case- 

(-awsten likes to belt-) 

praying he'll leave and then catching his eye and hoping to  _ god  _ that he comes back, a vision in red-black- _ fuck- _ )

fur coats, in october, in texas, absolutely oozing drama, awsten on register and otto stocking, re-arranging, hands that fumble and drop and  _ hold it by the edges, careful,  _ there's rules for where to put his hands, neat guidelines, alphabetical order and sorting by genre. awsten on register wearing sunglasses he bought with his 25% employee discount, awsten on register smiling with his sharp teeth and jawn looking up to offer dry commentary,  _ you're-buying-that?  _ quick eighth notes with awsten's smack on the arm to complete the measure,  _ don't listen to him, he doesn't work here  _ exasperated smile thrown otto's way and caught, clumsily. 

‘your eyes are two different colors.’

‘yeah! you never noticed?’

one of the regulars, travis-something, is leaning on the counter, smiling up at awsten like he’s a goddamn angel. ‘nah,’ he says, his voice soft and southern, ‘i guess i just never looked properly.’

(otto decides that he hates travis, then and there. he tells himself it has more to do with his music taste- a copy of  _ meat is murder  _ when otto knows full well there’s two perfectly good  _ the queen is dead _ s over on the shelf- than the coy way he tilts his head and grins at awsten.)

awsten and jawn are waltzing, when otto clocks in a few days later, a schubert record spinning quietly; jawn’s leading, except when otto slips behind the counter and takes a second to stare, he’s obviously less experienced. awsten in all his lipgloss-shimmering glory is murmuring to him, low and melodic, and jawn’s dark gaze darts down to their feet every few seconds, checks on the structural integrity of their box step. it’s strange and lovely and otto is watching the way awsten’s hand rests on jawn’s chest, their fluorescent haloes, fever-dizzy to the sound of d. 779. awsten’s ankles are pale in the space between his vans and straight-leg pink jeans, fishnets vivisecting the delicate skin into neat diamonds. jawn’s mouth is red and inviting and-

(-is it otto’s imagination or do his lips sparkle faintly, as if he’s been kissed good and hard by someone sticky and glittering-)

awsten waves to him over jawn’s shoulder, as they’re spinning prom-night-disco-ball slow, his nails pink and hands longing-lovely as usual, arm thrown haphazardly over jawn’s shoulder. 

‘you want a piece of gum?’ awsten asks. it’s past noon. otto’s on register and awsten’s supposed to be stocking and jawn left to go to his own job an hour ago. 

_ you want-  _ awsten asks and otto says, ‘yeah.’

(he doesn’t spit the gum out until long after it’s lost flavor, riding the bus home and running his sickly-sweet tongue over his teeth.)

geoff comes in one monday-

-it’s foggy and wet outside, so awsten’s bundled up in the brightest orange windbreaker in the world and sulking in the back-

-he nods to otto, businesslike but somehow warm, his stride quick and yet unhurried, the lines under his eyes shadowed and his gaze bright as ever-

‘awsten’s doing inventory,’ otto offers, and he dips his chin and strolls to the back. 

otto’s checked out a group of teenage girls ( _ aeroplane over the sea _ and  _ pop 2 _ ) and emptied the change from the gumball machine by the time he emerges; he’s a little more relaxed, posture looser and hair askew, and otto has a moment of wondering if awsten’s smoking pot back there before he remembers the rambling anecdote about running a d.a.r.e. chapter at his highschool and his thoughts slip-slide in a different direction. (geoff runs his hand distractedly over his shirt collar and otto watches the movement, taking in the way his hoodie’s arranged to cover his neck.)

awsten wanders out a little later, bright and talkative as he jams a quarter into the temporary tattoo dispenser track. he offers a heart with a mom banner to geoff, who politely refuses. otto means to, when it comes around to him, but awsten looks at him with those big eyes and he’s a goddamn sucker, so he follows him into the food court bathroom (‘geoff, watch the store! if any kids come in tell them their taste sucks.’) and sits up on the counter and withstands the heaven-hell that is awsten’s warm hands holding a damp paper towel to his bicep. 

‘damn, you’re, like, ripped,’ awsten says, pushing gently at the muscle, his fingertips like lightning and painted lemon yellow and adorned with stars. otto watches his broad hands dab at the tattoo and lets the water drip on his pants and murmurs, ‘yeah, i play baseball,’ and gives into the way his heart lurches in his chest at awsten’s smile. 

‘holy shit!’ he beams up at him- and isn’t that a sensation, awsten looking  _ up _ \- and otto smiles before he realizes he’s doing it. he’s helpless against those eyes and hands and maybe for a second he considers leaning down and kissing that lipstick-pink mouth- 

it’s such a small gap- 

-and then awsten’s gaze is sliding back to the paper towel and saying, ‘this should be about done,’ peeling the paper back and saying, excited, ‘hell yeah!’ 

otto flexes, strikes a rosie the riveter pose, and awsten sighs wonderfully and says, ‘that actually looks good on you,’ in a tone otto thinks might be envy. 

which is odd, from awsten; otto’s used to being the envious one, watching him stroll in wearing makeup and dusky perfume and thinking how it must feel to be confident enough to leave the house like that, to risk god knows what and still grin with that sharp-toothed glee. 

it hangs in the air, too long and too warm and maybe too revealing, though maybe that’s just otto, maybe this tough-guy heart is just a little red rorschach test and otto’s therapist is examining him with one eye green and one blue, jotting down a note that reads  _ pining  _ in bright pink scrawl. maybe they’re gazing at each other a little too long or maybe it’s just the off-beat metronome of otto’s pounding heart counting the beats in dozens. the door swings open and awsten’s flitting off to the trashcan to throw out the paper and otto’s hopping down and they’re walking back as co-workers, as friends, as one man drowning and one holding his head underwater with a mindlessly elegant hand.

regular-travis has a routine, a 7-inch on repeat, every wednesday rain or shine or hell or highwater, sometimes just to loiter and come in smelling faintly of raw tobacco- never of cigarette smoke, always of the vaguely earthy scent otto associates with his last boyfriend and his roll-ups- so it’s strange to miss him, as they’re closing up. awsten’s in the back and otto’s re-organizing and jawn’s lingering around the pop albums, his fingers flipping from dorian electra to charli xcx with a practiced-looking disinterest. otto maneuvers behind him to slot  _ the 1975  _ back into its place from where awsten had it spinning on the record player all day, and jawn starts. it’s a barely-there jump of his shoulders, but it passes like static through his worn sweater to otto’s t-shirt, the place where their backs briefly connect. he smells like- otto’s not in the habit of sniffing people, but something pricks at the back of his tongue and he inhales deeper and jawn smells like blood. 

he reminds himself it’s deer season- keeps walking- reminds himself again that jawn’s a photographer and self-described  _ indoor person _ \- crushes that thought where it rises and focuses instead on taping a label where it’s started to come loose.  _ music to kill somebody to (angry rock)  _ reads awsten’s handwriting. otto scrapes his finger on the tape dispenser. 

jawn smells like dried blood and otto sucks on the raw spot below his nail and wonders what awsten’s been doing in the back all this time. 

awsten’s on the bus on friday, a vision in pink, a band called blossoms in the earbud he offers, saying quietly, ‘i’m glad our shifts line up.’

‘me too.’

they open together in relative silence, awsten distractible and fiddling with the sign, and otto goes, ghostlike, into the back. (he works there too, he doesn’t need to sneak around, but something makes him careful with the doorknob, his tread gentle on the worn carpet.) 

(there’s nothing in there, which makes him feel real dumb. he doesn’t know what he was expecting, only that he had a feeling there’d be  _ something,  _ that awsten’s keeping something from him, and there’s a sort of warm relief that comes with finding the back room full of the usual boxes and crates and old acoustic.)

otto crouches down to the minifridge, intent on finding a breakfast, beverage or otherwise- the thing’s usually got at least a soda in it, and with awsten’s snacking habits there’s gotta be something edible- the seal’s just come unstuck when the door swings closed and otto starts to say, ‘hey, i’m stealing your shit,’ and never gets it all the way out because the fridge is red inside, bags upon bags of red so dark it’s nearly black. 

awsten’s hands grab him by the shoulders and pull him up, turn him around and  _ push,  _ until he’s up against the door- he has the adrenaline-ripe thought that he’s gonna get beat up- maybe killed, actually- and awsten’s kissing him. 

he tastes like sickly-sweet artificial strawberry, the plastic and glitter stickiness of him, the bright hint of bubblegum and the wet sound it makes when they pull apart and otto can feel his lipgloss on his own lips. it's warm and strange and awsten grins at him, his teeth sharp.

god, his teeth are sharp. the lipgloss is smeared and shimmering and his teeth are off-white, almost pink, his canines bigger than they should be-

‘aren’t you and jawn-’ otto asks, instead of all the better things he could ask-

_ what the fuck  _ should be higher on the priority list- 

and awsten says, ‘nope,’ with a popped  _ p.  _

he’s kind of insatiable, diving back in for another kiss and holding tight to the front of otto’s shirt, and otto surrenders for a bit, tongue exploring the foreign and welcome feeling of awsten’s hot mouth, until he comes back to himself and says, breathless, ‘what- what is that, in there?’

maybe he’s afraid of the answer. maybe he’s expecting it. awsten’s breath is strawberry-sweet on his ear and leaves goosebumps down his neck when he murmurs, ‘travis. i was meaning to tell you.’

otto squeaks and it could be fear or it could be the way awsten's too-sharp teeth graze his throat or some combination of the two-

'where's the rest of him?'

awsten doesn't answer. he leaves lipstick prints sticky-sweet down otto's neck, licks it off sloppy and wet and  _ hot _ \- otto feels feverish and lightheaded and all he can do is grab at awsten, pull him closer. he remembers, giddy, the brief flirtation he had with  _ twilight  _ in middle school; he laughs, the sound gasping and hysterical and awsten hums into the skin over his pulse. 

'now that i can finally say it-' awsten says, and otto can feel him inhale, feels the way his blood thrums in response, 'you smell fucking great.'

'thanks.'

awsten giggles. 

otto's gonna say something, or maybe he's just gonna kiss him again- but the bell on the door jingles before he can, and awsten untangles himself with an inhuman grace, straightens otto's shirt, and glides out, leaves him to lean against the wall and shut his eyes and catch his breath.

the first time he sees awsten drinking-

-jawn and awsten call it that, a stupid little inside joke- 

-'you should see him  _ blood-drunk _ ,' jawn says once, at 2 in the goddamn afternoon, voice loud as anything, and otto can see the change in jawn's pupils when he blushes, the involuntary swelling- 

-he wants to take a picture, wants to fix it in his memory forever. 

he's already seen awsten drink before, a curly straw stuck in a blood bag, sitting on the floor in the back room, head tipped back against the wall. he opened one eye and flashed otto a pink-red smile, his eyeshadow deep purple and dramatic. but the first time he sees him drink, for real, from someone, it's their day off, a sunny saturday. 

they're in geoff's comfortable living room; he shares it with his fiance, a sweet girl named chloe who gives otto a lemonade and excuses herself to the bedroom. ('i can see him afterward, but during-' she laughs, self-conscious and dismissing, 'it makes me so nervous. i trust awsten, he's one of geoff's best friends, but it just taps into something in me, y'know? i wanna protect him.')

awsten's fidgeting on the towel-covered couch, jawn's poised on an armchair, and geoff's beside awsten, calm as anything. 

(otto feels like a voyeur.)

he sips at his drink and watches geoff polish off a glass of water and jawn says, 'you don't have to watch if you don't want to,' and otto shakes his head.

'no, i- i wanna see.'

jawn smirks, but it's not unkind. 

it happens pretty fast- geoff baring his jugular and awsten putting an arm around his waist to steady them both, the posture intimate; he leans in and his light eyes flash up to otto’s, his pupils like pinpricks, and he lowers his glittering mouth to geoff’s skin and pierces him. 

geoff exhales, like he’s getting a piercing, breathes easily through the pain, and otto can see him in profile, long eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks. he looks almost blissful.

‘there’s a sedative or something in our venom,’ jawn says, ‘ it makes you chill out.’

geoff chuckles and it’s low and raspy and awsten makes a wet sound against his neck. ‘makes it feel nice as shit,’ he says. 

awsten raises his head and otto’s breath catches in his throat- his first thought, horribly, is that he looks like the three cheers cover, blood striking and red on his beautiful face. his eyes are almost black, a dazed grin on his face. he reaches up to dip his finger in the blood pooling from the neat wound, and he looks over to otto when he sucks it off. it’s a stupid porno move and otto would be ashamed it works on him except it’s currently working on him and he can’t think about much else. 

‘you want a hit?’ awsten says, lazy-joking, to jawn; they all laugh, geoff’s neck gushing enthusiastically about it. there’s pink lipgloss stained all around the bite. 

jawn’s sleek and dark and like something out of a movie, a handsome dracula, his broad fingers carefully tilting geoff’s jaw up and out of the way. otto’s been at parties where he’s the sober one, and it feels oddly similar now, standing out of the way and watching them all on the couch, these beautiful people he’s somehow a part of; awsten beckons him over with eyes drunk-wild and against his better judgement- stephanie meyer’s voice in his head- he clambers into awsten’s lap and kisses him on the blood-stained mouth. there’s a flash of danger there, a warning that comes when awsten’s hot little sharp teeth drag over his bottom lip, and otto’s never considered himself a real thrill-seeker but maybe it’s nice to get in over his head like this. 

they stop quick, as it is, because once jawn’s drunk his fill and pushed them with a mumble of, ‘go smooch your fangslut boyfriend somewhere else,’ there’s cleanup and chloe bandaging geoff with gentle hands and jawn calling first dibs on washing his face in the bathroom (because awsten’s lipgloss got all over him, which he complains spectacularly about) and it’s a shift so simply into domestic-type things that otto almost forgets what they’re here for. he finds his lemonade where he set it down and it’s lukewarm. 

they watch a movie afterwards.  _ what we do in the shadows.  _ go figure. 

awsten cleans up and otto watches from the doorway, the preening hands at his hair and lips and shirt collar. 

‘is the mirror thing not true, then?’

awsten snorts. ‘they don’t make mirrors with silver anymore.’ his mouth is bare. otto can’t tell if he misses the blood or the makeup more. 

otto’s shift starts three hours after awsten’s, on wednesday, so his bus ride is unfortunately free of bubblegum pop and cherry-flavored kisses, and he startles when he walks into the record store and travis of all fucking people is leaning on the counter and flirting with a heart-shaped-glasses-clad awsten.

he’s checking out- otto can’t see his record but he’d bet it sucks- and he gives otto a little nod when he walks out. 

(awsten must see something in otto’s face, because he props his glasses up on his hair and takes out his lollipop and asks, ‘what?’)

otto gestures vaguely back at the door, at the concept of travis’s leaving and being up and walking around. ‘he’s like- he’s just here? did you turn him?’

awsten stares for a second, and then he laughs, bold and brassy- ‘did you think i fucking killed him?’

otto flushes, he can feel the heat in his ears and see the change in awsten’s posture- 

‘i-’

‘he’s a  _ donor.  _ i asked him if he would give blood to a poor sweet vamp in need and he said yes.’

‘that’s just because he’s, like, in love with you,’ otto mutters, and if he sounds a little petulant, he thinks he probably deserves it. 

awsten grins, simpering and all fangs, and says, ‘don’t get jealous on me. i didn’t even bite him. it was like a goddamn blood drive.’

otto kisses him hard and sloppy anyway, leaning up over the counter. 

they take the bus home together, and that’s not unusual; what’s making otto fidget in his seat is that his stop went by five minutes ago and he’s still sharing an earbud with awsten. (awsten, to his credit, looks half-asleep, green sunglasses down over his closed eyes.)

it’s intimate and it’s odd and otto thinks it’s strange and wonderful how easy it is to be casual with awsten. how heart-pounding and comfortable it is, to dive into a love-struck bus-ride partnership made up of record store kisses and awsten’s color-coded playlists. awsten props his sunglasses up at the end of  _ just like heaven  _ and smiles and otto’s eyes stick on the hint of fang poking out under his lip. 

awsten’s apartment is tiny- homey and nice, and he offers otto one of his roommate’s beers before they retire to his room. (it’s very reminiscent of high school, to roll this craft beer between his palms and sit on a hot boy’s bed.) otto’s kind of expecting something slick and old-fashioned, when awsten kneels down next to his stereo, some guitar solos down low to round out the sounds of the conversation; something the guys he used to skip school with would listen to, the art kids who french-inhaled their cigarettes and painted their nails black. he opens his beer with a lighter sitting on awsten’s bedside table and puts it down before his first sip to say, ‘dude, is this the talking heads?’

awsten grins, crooked, from the floor, and says, ‘yeah.’ 

otto doesn’t know the song, only recognizes the thrumming feeling of the bassline, and he swallows his beer and returns awsten’s mood-lit smile when he hops up to the bed. (the mood lights are purple-blue. awsten’s hair is glowing faintly.)

he thinks maybe they’ll kiss, but awsten just sits down beside him and leans back against the headboard and shuts his eyes- his opens one after a minute or so and asks, slightly sheepish, ‘is this lame?’

‘nah.’ 

‘sometimes i worry i’m, like- too much. y’know?’

otto looks over to him- glow-in-the-dark hair and glittering nails and talking heads album- and murmurs, ‘you’re not too much for me,’ and means it. 

**Author's Note:**

> ive been listening to too much dorian electra and the 1975 and i got an ad for gender neutral lipgloss the other day so this was inevitable  
my only planning note for this was 'just a fucking magical mystery tour thru fun words for pop music'
> 
> italics in the summary come from the [ 'love me letter' ](http://cdn2.thelineofbestfit.com/media/2014/Love-Me-Letter.jpg) by matty healy !!


End file.
